Ruska
by Alithea
Summary: Crossover Gangster-AU. Hotel Moscow has returned to the city of the Numbers and no one knows why, but Nichol has never been so afraid.


**Title: Ruska**  
**Rating: R**  
**AU Crossover Gundam Wing and Black Lagoon**  
**Characters are not mine. I am just borrowing.**  
**A/N: Set in the gangster AU-verse of The Numbers, this is a Numbers Alternates story.**

Nichol looked at the photograph that Aretha Walker slid across the table and visibly paled.

"You know this woman?" Aretha asked.

Nichol's throat was suddenly very dry. He blinked a few times and then nodded slowly.

"Do you want to tell me anything?"

He couldn't find the words. There were at least a dozen that ran through his mind, but the biggest, the most pressing were the words he managed to utter, "Everyone will die."

Aretha arched an eyebrow and then nodded. "Want a drink," she asked and walked over to where Eleven kept the Scotch. She poured a full glass with no ice and set it in front of him.

Nichol looked at the glass and then chugged down the contents. He blinked and then said, "I thought…I thought Hotel Moscow had agreed to stay out of the city. The last time-" And he stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence.

"The last time the Numbers were whittled down to practically nothing," Aretha said to finish the thought. "Eleven thinks someone called them in. What can you tell us about her?"

He ran his hands through his hair and tried to release a slow even breath, but it came out ragged, and full of a fear that Aretha had never witnessed in the man. Even having seen the way Nichol reacted to his uncle's name on occasion was nothing compared to this.

"Someone…Someone took this picture from our group?"

"Yes."

"She knows."

"What?" She was confused.

"Don't you see it?" His voice jumped, excitable and frightened. He stabbed at the photograph with his finger. "She's looking right at the bloody camera. She knows someone was there."

* * *

"Danya, say good bye to your sister."

He was very small at the time. The woman who smiled down at him was much taller and hardly looked a thing like him, except perhaps in certain features about the face. But aside from that her coloring was completely the opposite of his dark features. She was all light, with short pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to twinkle under the right light.

He hugged her and she put her hand on his head.

"Stay out of trouble," she said. "They'll look after you."

* * *

"So…" It was Trowa. Nichol heaved out a breath as he sat in the back of the car.

"So, what do you know about her," Trowa asked quietly. "What's she like?"

He shut his eyes and shook his head, and then he said, "If Eleven were whole…she's like that, only…" He tried to steal himself against the memory. "I don't know the man that well, but if you combined Eleven and Thirteen into one person you'd get-"

"Twenty-four," Trowa said with an odd smile.

Nichol felt ill. The bile was rising in his throat. Is that what she had done? Or was Trowa just joking?

* * *

The office had been empty space only two days prior, but it was now resplendent and functional. There were no noticeable mementos, nothing that touched of sentimentality, but all the furniture spoke of excellent taste through its simplicity.

A woman sat behind the desk in the office. She was tall, with long blonde hair, and bright blue eyes (except that the right eye was a little less vibrant than the other). She had a burn scar down the right side of her face and other scars of a similar nature could be seen scattered across her chest and neck. She wore a conservative but attractive maroon business suit, and a cigar dangled from her right hand. She was looking over a file that had just been placed before her.

"So," she said softly, addressing the man on the other side of the desk. "Report."

"As you instructed all the factions in this region are now aware of our presence," the man said. "The OZ, and what little remains of the Alliance are already holding meetings to discuss us. White Fang has made no discernable movements as you predicted."

"Thank you, Sergeant." She took a puff from her cigar and then exhaled a long breath of smoke. She tapped her finger on one of the photos and then asked, "What of the other matter?"

"It appears he's a safecracker for Eleven."

The woman grinned. "Eleven. What of Eleven?"

"Medical reports show that the rumors are true. Eleven has a split personality. She is aided by her close personal assistant and newly appointed Number, Eight, Aretha Walker."

"Good work Sergeant."

"Thank you, Capitan."

She took a breath and then said, "Who is the lovely young man next to my brother?"

"Another of Eleven's men, but there are rumors that he is actually a Number."

She clucked her tongue and said, "Oh Danya, what have you gotten yourself into?" She shook her head and then said, "We have a meeting soon. Make sure all precautions are taken."

"Yes, Capitan."

* * *

"You mean, you knew?" Aretha asked quickly.

Eleven nodded and then sighed, almost wistfully, almost. "Balalaika agreed, before Thirteen took over, to keep Hotel Moscow out of this city. So there must be a reason why she returned, and it can't just be because someone called her in. There isn't enough money on this planet to make her go back on her word. Unless someone betrayed her, but if that had happened she wouldn't have announced herself."

"So you think it's because of Nichol?"

"I think it's hard to tell what a woman like that is thinking at all times," Eleven replied. "But I want our men to be prepared, so make sure they are aware of the facts. Balalaika is the ex-captain of a Russian paramilitary troop. All her top men are all ex-military from her squad. They are insanely loyal to her. There are civilians in Hotel Moscow, but they are petty minions at best. If she starts anything it will be done using the same military precision she used to ravage the Afghanistan desert."

"And Nichol?"

"Is her baby brother," Eleven said coolly. "I heard a rumor somewhere that she was going to sneak back into the city and take out her uncle for all he had done to what remained of her family, but dear old Mihailov was taken out of the picture before she could do so."

Aretha nodded, remembering that bank job well.

* * *

"You're afraid of her," Trowa said flatly.

Nichol stood motionless and then nodded.

"What do you think she's going to do?"

"Well, that's the thing… I don't know." Nichol replied and pulled his coat tight around him. He was about to open the door to the apartment complex from the street, but stopped as two men approached from behind.

He turned. Trowa seemed calm, but prepared to strike.

One of the men, who had a long scar across his face, held out an envelope towards Nichol. "The Captain would like to request your presence," he said, his Russian accent thickening his already deep voice. "She asks that you wear a suit, and to bring your young friend with you." He quickly eyed Trowa and grinned slightly.

Nichol took the letter and nodded.

"The time is indicated in the letter I believe," the man said and turned to leave.

"Wait," Nichol called out.

The man stopped.

"You're Boris right?"

The man nodded.

"Is she…is she-"

"Attend as you are asked," Boris said and then stepped off down the street with his companion.

* * *

_Little Danya,_

_Or should I call you, Nichol? Nikolai? _

_I see that you still find yourself following orders like a good little soldier, but soldiering for the mafia isn't what I ever expected from you. No one expected it of me either. Life is like that._

_Dinner will be tomorrow evening, at nine. Please be prompt and invite your handsome young friend to join you. We have things to discuss._

_Sincerely,_

_Balalaika_

_

* * *

_

Trowa stood toe to toe with Nichol and undid the sloppy knot that Nichol had made of his bowtie. He quickly refashioned it and set it into place. He then placed a white rose boutonniere on the lapel of Nichol's jacket and smiled.

"There now you look respectable."

"For a funeral, yes," Nichol replied and tried to loose his collar a bit. He felt very confined in the suit.

"I don't think she's going to kill you."

Nichol wasn't paying attention. "She'll shoot me over soup."

"You haven't even seen her since you were six-years-old."

"Or worse…she could do worse. I've read the papers."

Trowa's brow knit together in concern. "What did she do to you in the past to make you act this way?"

Nichol stared him down. "Not me."

* * *

The memory was an odd blur of sounds and images. They haunted his dreams. Sometimes he wasn't sure it had happened at all. What he knew for certain was that he had been in Russia.

There was a smoking gun barrel.

There was a glint of sun off the metal of a knife.

There were screams and it was cold, frozen. He never thought he'd ever be warm again.

There was snow stained red like a painting he had done in pre-school.

A voice that was soft and cool, but sharp spoke words he could not remember.

Blue eyes, the bluest he'd ever seen, that twinkled under the light, and the tug of lips creating a grin that was feral and cruel.

"Touch him again and I will not miss," she had said. "The wolves will feast on your flesh, but that isn't nearly enough."

* * *

He wondered how it was that he could forget how beautiful she was. Even with the scars and the dark edges that banished all the light from his previous memories of her. She was talking with Trowa as they walked into the dinning room, or the room that was set up as a dinning room. Trowa smiled and answered politely, and Balalaika chuckled warmly in response.

The three of them sat down at the table. The dinner itself was made up of food from Nichol's childhood, very Russian, but very comforting. He wasn't comfortable yet. He kept waiting for something terrible to happen. To himself or to Trowa, or- He didn't even know how to direct his fears. She was always so frightening to him, because of the past. Because of something he could barely remember, and yet it conflicted with so much that he could recall that was good about her.

She had wanted to go to the Olympics. She could have made it. She was good, the best shot there was. The war broke out though. War broke out and she went to serve, but for the Russians. She had the duel citizenship and she fought for the other side. The side that he was taught was wrong. And after she left everything went to hell for him. Everything fell apart.

Why didn't she ever come back for him? Why didn't she save him?

"Danya," her voice broke in through the fog of his thoughts.

He looked up at her and then at Trowa who was concerned, but smiling.

"Sorry."

Balalaika shook her head. "I said I want to discuss your future."

"Oh." He blinked, confused. "What?"

She raised an eyebrow and then lit a cigar. She exhaled and then said, "Join Hotel Moscow. You seem to generally have a good head on your shoulders. You should be working higher up."

Nichol scowled, and then noticed the extent of the scars along his sister's neck, across her chest, and her arms. She couldn't have ever known until it was too late what their uncle was doing, and what then? What other things had she endured that he could only ever imagine?

He took a deep breath.

"You can think it over," she said.

"I… I can't accept." He said abruptly. "I've pledged myself to the OZ."

"Is that your final answer?" Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes."

Balalaika began to laugh. "My poor, poor Nikolai." She nodded and said, "Indeed, well, don't regret it." She turned to Trowa, "And you Mr. Barton?"

"I shall also have to decline," Trowa said respectfully.

"Of course. We can't have Nichol all alone, can we?" She nodded and then said, "Well, that certainly helps me with matters. Eat, eat! You're so thin." She reached out and pinched Trowa's cheek.

Nichol grabbed for a glass of wine and tried to keep the room from spinning.

* * *

"And just like that," Aretha said tossing over the picture, "Hotel Moscow leaves the scene. I guess you were right."

"About what?" Eleven looked at the picture. Balalaika was winking towards the camera.

"She was here for Nichol on some capacity."

"Yes." She peered at the photograph. There was something in the woman's hand. It was some sort of arm band, one she recognized. She shut her eyes. "Aretha?"

"Yes?"

"Get me Thirteen please. We have some cleanup to take care of."

"Oh?"

"I have a feeling White Fang is going to remain a small player for a long time."

* * *

Nichol stared in horror at the evening paper.

"She did it for you."

He turned to look at Trowa, baffled. "What?"

Trowa pointed at the paper.

"White Fang has nothing to do with-" He swallowed and reached out for a chair to steady himself.

"You are family," Trowa said. "She's left the city, but she made a statement."

Nichol shut his eyes. "I'm family. White Fang is an enemy of OZ." He felt his body go cold. "I'm family," he whispered and said, "A Number was responsible for-" He sat up. "Oh God."

* * *

He had shivered in her arms and wondered how she could possibly carry him so far. She was wearing an old military jacket and nothing else. The rifle was slung across her back but they didn't have much else. They never did.

She set him down next to her in a makeshift ice fort. "I'm going to take care of you, Danya," she said. She bunched some clean snow together and held it out to him. "Eat this." She held him close and then said, "We have family in the States. If there is any honor left in this world they will look after us."

Nichol nodded, his eyelids growing heavy. "It's cold," he muttered.

"I know." She placed a hand on his head. "It won't always be."

End.


End file.
